CHAPTER TWO
Tucker
The door rattled when I slammed it. I’d built it myself to withstand harsh winter storms and a hungry bear if one happened to come around. It still shook on its hinges thanks to my temper.
I stood in the dim cabin, my bare chest cold, the little paper sack heavy in my hand. I should’ve tossed it, not liking the effects it sometimes had on me, but instead I set it on the counter. What the hell was Parker thinking, sending a girl like her up here alone?
Not a girl. A woman. All soft curves and quiet nerve. A braid she kept shoving behind her shoulder, big eyes that tried to look brave, a mouth that trembled before she decided to sass me anyway.
I scrubbed a hand over my jaw. Too much light from standing in the doorway had already stirred that ugly pressure at the base of my skull. Migraine. It had waited until after she left—merciful bastard.
I killed the lamps and let the cabin sink into shadows.
Wind whispered through the pines and the silence settled around me.
I stretched my neck, rolled my shoulders, tried to pretend I didn’t still feel the ghost of her skin on my fingers from when the bag changed hands.
Soft. Warm. The kind of soft a man like me didn’t get to keep.
I took one of the damn pills, again cursing my dependance on them. I’d lived with worse than pain, but could tell this was going to be a bitch I couldn’t shake off. I usually welcomed the pain. Pain meant I was still here. Still alive.
I lay down on my couch, but my brain didn’t stop replaying the scene on the porch. The way she’d looked at my scars—yeah, she saw them, everybody did—but there hadn’t been pity. Just… attention. A steady, clear kind. She’d looked long enough to know what she was seeing and then kept her chin up
The anger for Parker rose again. Who the hell sends sunshine to climb a mountain and argue with a wolf?
I let the medicine and the dark drag me under.
Sometime after dawn, the edge of the pain backed off.
It didn’t leave—never did these days—but it retreated enough that I could think in straight lines again.
The light was gray, the kind that makes the world look like it hasn’t decided whether to be kind or cruel.
I made coffee strong enough to pull paint off a wall and stared at the bottle of pills.
If Parker was going to start sending her, we were going to have a conversation.
Because the curvy nurse, with her soft voice and stubborn chin and those great big eyes that saw too much—was exactly why I stayed holed up in my cabin. And would continue to do so, despite the want she’d stirred up so unexpectedly.
She was a woman who would expect things. Conversation. Closeness. All the normal shit normal people did.
I wasn’t normal. I hadn’t been since the explosion took half my squad and left me with more scars than skin.
Since I’d come back home to nothing—my mom had remarried during my last deployment and moved to Arizona with her new husband.
She hadn’t even bothered to tell me until I was stateside.
I had no siblings. No other family. I’d never known my father or any of my grandparents.
No, there was no one who gave a damn whether I lived or died.
My commanding officer had sent me here, to Lone Mountain.
A place he’d heard of that took in men like me.
Men who just wanted to be left alone. Race Gentry had set me up.
Given me a cabin. A piece of land. Solitude.
Peace. Another stray, another vet who couldn’t fit back into the world.
He’d understood. Hadn’t asked any questions.
Just handed me the keys and told me it was mine as long as I needed it.
I never left the mountain except for supplies. I didn’t talk to anyone except Parker and then, only when the pain got bad enough I couldn’t stand it. I hadn’t let anyone close.
Until yesterday.
The woman was still on my damn mind.
A curvy little nurse with a braid and worn sneakers who had climbed my mountain and looked at me like I was still human.
Against my better judgement, but driven by something inside me, I left my mountain.
And by the time I hit town, I remembered why I didn’t come down often. People stared—or looked away too quickly when they saw me.
That was why I preferred trees. They didn’t pity a man.
I parked behind the clinic and went inside. It smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee. The woman behind the reception desk blinked at me like I’d ridden in on a moose. I hadn’t been down in weeks. Maybe months. The calendar and I weren’t on speaking terms anymore.
“Well, well. Mr. Barrett, out of the hills.”
“Where’s Parker?” My voice came out flat, and she flinched even though I wasn’t aiming to make anybody jump.
“In with a patient.” Her gaze swept over me—flannel, stubble and a jaw set tight. My usual look. “Everything okay?”
“It will be when he stops sending people up that road alone.”
“Oh, you’re talking about Emily?”
Emily. Damn, but the name suited her. Shy and reserved. Or at least on the outside. I’d seen that spark of fire flare in her eyes before she’d shut it down.
“Did I hear someone call my name?”
I turned slowly. That same sing-song voice floated through the air and there she was.
Hair in that same thick braid, cheeks pink, scrubs hugging those mouth-watering curves. Her eyes did that same big, surprised blink when she saw me, then narrowed, like she was determined not to let me rattle her. Brave little thing.
“Mr. Barrett,” she said, all polite professionalism. “What can we do for you this morning?”
“I’m here to see Parker.”
She frowned. “You’re not on the—”
Change of tactics. I took her arm and led her back the way she’d come, away from prying eyes. “We need to talk.”
She pushed open the door, and I stepped inside behind her, the room was too bright for the low buzz starting at the base of my skull. I dropped her arm, putting my hand up to cover my eyes. Shit. I didn’t have time for this.
“I’m not sure what there is talk about, Mr. Barrett. You don’t come down for your refills and Dr. Parker worries.”
“Parker gets paid to worry. That doesn’t mean he gets to send you up that goat path alone.”
Her brows drew together. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You don’t take that road by yourself again.”
She placed her hands on her hips. “Does that mean you’re going to come pick up your refills on time?”
“No, it does not. But that’s not your concern.” I knew I was snapping at her, but I couldn’t stop myself. I had left my cabin too soon after last night’s migraine and now it was starting its encore, shimmering at the edges of my vision.
“I have a job to do.”
“Then do it elsewhere.”
She flinched and I hated myself for it. Hated that I was doing this—pushing, hurting, trying to drive her away because it was easier than admitting the truth.
That I wanted her to come back up the mountain. To me.
I’d spent the whole damn night thinking about her.
But the idea of her climbing that road alone, where anything could happen, made something violent and protective rise up in my chest. She was too soft.
Too kind. Too everything I didn’t deserve to get to know.
Because looking at her made me remember what it felt like to be human. A man. A man who wanted.
But I couldn’t say anything like that.
I risked a look at her and immediately regretted it. Because she knew. Knew in an instant what was happening.
“Sit,” she ordered.
I did, hauling myself up on the table. I shut my eyes when she hit the overhead switch and turned out the lights. Her cool fingers brushed my temple, and I wanted to lean into her touch. Every damn nerve in my body woke up.
“Is it an aura? Any nausea?”
“Just the damn fireworks,” I muttered.
“Have you had these a long time?” she asked softly.
“Since the explosion.” My voice was flat. I didn’t need to say more. Shrapnel and concussions were souvenirs of a deployment I didn’t talk about.
She got an ice pack from the small refrigerator in the corner and pressed it against my forehead. I opened my legs and pulled her in closer. “That feels good.”
“I know,” she murmured.
But did she? Did she know how long I’d been without a human touch?
“I can give you the dissolvable,” she said. “It’s faster.”
“I didn’t come for pills.”
“Not taking medicine for pain doesn’t make you more of a man,” she said, and her voice had that quiet steel again. “It just makes you hurt.”
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. Her eyes were too close, too steady. And I hated that a stranger—this stranger—was cutting through the armor I’d spent years forging.
The ice pack dripped a cold line down to my cheekbone, and she caught it with a thumb, wiping the water away gently. For one reckless second, I imagined those same fingers on my skin for a different reason.
“Emily,” I rasped.
Her lashes flicked up. “You know my name?”
“The woman out front told me.”
She smiled—quick, then it was gone. I felt like all the light had suddenly fled the room. The worry came back when she saw the lines around my eyes. “You’re in pain.”
“I’ve had worse.” I felt her flinch at that, which pissed me off at myself for saying it. “Look—about yesterday—”
“We don’t have to talk about yesterday,” she said quickly, then flushed. “If you’ll let me give you the dose, we can get ahead of this before it blooms.”
Blooms. Hell of a word for an explosion.
“Fine,” I muttered.
She moved away, and I immediately wished she hadn’t. She came back with a small white pill and placed it on my tongue, fingers careful, professional. The dissolving bitterness spread, and I chased it with a swallow of water she brought without me asking.
“Lie back,” she said. Her tone was gentle but left no room for argument. Which I suddenly didn’t feel like doing. Damn it, did I want her attention? Her concern? Her touch?
She slid another cool pack behind my neck, her fingertips grazing the short hair there. My hand came up, closing around her wrist before I could stop it. Her pulse jumped under my thumb. Small bones. Warm skin. I could wrap my hand all the way around and still have room.
“Don’t,” I said hoarsely. I didn’t know if I meant don’t stop or don’t get closer.
Her throat worked. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Fuck. The medicine dulled the pain but not the effect she was having on me. I turned my head slightly, close enough that her scent once again crowded out everything else.
“You can’t keep driving up that mountain alone,” I said again, because it was safer than what I wanted to say.
“You are not the only patient who needs medication delivered.”
“I am the only one that far up the mountain.” My eyes narrowed as I looked at her. “Or I damn well better be.”
There were other men who lived like me on Lone Mountain. The thought of her being around any of them, hell, any man, made my gut tighten.
She didn’t answer. My gaze slid down, not in any subtle way, over the soft lines of her scrubs, the way they couldn’t hide the curve of her hips, the way the fabric pulled across her chest when she folded her arms. Her nipples tightened under the thin top, and my blood went hot enough I had to breathe slowly.
“Emily.”
Her breath hitched. “Mr. Barrett—”
“Tucker.”
“Tucker,” she repeated, and I swear my name never sounded like that before.
“You should rest,” she said. “Then you can yell at Dr. Parker.”
“I’m not here to yell.”
“Yes you are. You came to tell me what roads I’m allowed to drive on.” The sass again—quiet, not mocking, but enough to make me realize I needed to leave.
I sat up, the paper crinkling under me. She reached to steady me, stopped short, fingers hovering inches from my shoulder. I wanted her to touch me more than I wanted air. My hand lifting to tuck a loose strand behind her ear. Before I could, the door opened, and in walked Dr. Parker.
The doctor’s expression was carefully neutral when he saw us standing so close together. “Tucker, good to see you. Everything all right?”
I glanced at Emily, and her face turned red. “I’ll just.” She hurried out the door without saying another word.
“Don’t send her up there alone again,” I said as soon as the door closed behind her.
Parker sighed, removing his glasses. “Tucker—”
“I mean it. Send someone else. Hell, I’ll come down and pick them up myself. But I don’t want her on that road alone.”
“Why?”
Because I’m afraid of what I’ll do if she keeps showing up. Because I’m afraid of what I won’t do. “Because it’s not safe.”
“Emily is perfectly capable of—”
“I don’t care how capable she is.” My hands clenched at my sides. “That road washes out in storms. There are drop-offs that’ll kill you if you’re not careful. And she drives that little hatchback like it’s invincible.”
Parker’s expression softened slightly. “You’re worried about her.”
“I’m being practical.”
“You drove down here—something you haven’t done in months—to tell me not to send her back. That’s not practical, Tucker. That’s concern.”
I didn’t answer.
He put his glasses back on, studying me for a long moment. “I’ll make you a deal. You come down for your refills from now on, and I won’t send Emily up the mountain with them.”
“Fine.”
“Every month. On time. No excuses.”
My jaw clenched. Coming down here meant people. It meant stares and whispers and having to pretend I was okay.
But it also meant keeping Emily off that road.
“Deal.”
The look on Parker’s face was amused, as if he knew what being alone with his little nurse would cost me.
Not for the first time, I wanted to punch him in the face.